


In Cinere

by whiskeyandlonging



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Anxiety, Canon-Typical Violence, Eating Disorder, F/M, Family Loss, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-10-07 16:25:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17369360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandlonging/pseuds/whiskeyandlonging
Summary: The death of your family hits you harder than you’d ever dreamed imaginable. With the help of the Winchesters, you might be able to step back from the edge.





	In Cinere

**Author's Note:**

> This piece comes from a really personal place, and I’ve poured a lot of myself into writing it to make sure it holds true to reality. If you or a loved one is struggling with an eating disorder, please see the information at the end for resources.

Under the grey sky, across your family’s caskets, a familiar shadow was perched against a tree.

His stance was too casual, as if he was well-acquainted with death and his friends.

The nonchalance infuriated you.

But today was about your family. About burying the life you loved, the one that had been shredded to pieces by animal claws that tore the fabric of your reality into bloody threads and left you behind to suffocate with grief.

And so you put the shadow from your mind, and focused instead on the pain that throbbed with every beat of your aching heart.

When the last casket had been lowered into the ground, you turned away from the wreaths of flowers, mockingly bright on this dark day. You trailed behind the guests, estranged relatives and friends whose grief was nothing compared to your own. A hand caught yours, tugged you back until you were facing him.

Dean.

The unsung hero who’d saved you, but hadn’t saved them.

The gratitude you’d felt at first had been overwhelmed by fury at his inability to help anyone else. A misstep that had left you alone in this world.

“What are you doing here?” Your expression was cold as you looked up at him, waiting for an answer.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh…I wanted to pay my respects. Didn’t think you’d really want me here, though.”

You laughed mirthlessly. “No, I don’t. So why are you?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.” His intense gaze focused wholly on you, and you couldn’t help but soften a bit. You shook your head and pulled away to follow the funeral guests.

You paused. The idea of making small talk, of listening to condolences on repeat for an hour, sipping lukewarm coffee and eating stale cookies sounded like hell. You whipped back around and sighed, resigning yourself to asking for his help once more.

“Could you take me home? Please?” You hated how weary you sounded.

His brow furrowed. “You’re not going to the reception?”

You shook your head. “Not hungry. And not in the mood to deal with fake pleasantries.”

He seemed to accept that without question, and gestured for you to follow him across the cemetery to the sleek black car idling across the street. Dean opened your door and waited until you were settled before closing it and circling around to the driver’s side.

You fiddled with your nails, picking at the cuticles nervously. He waited patiently for you to speak.

“I didn’t tell anyone, you know. About the werewolf,” you offered quietly. When he didn’t say anything, you continued. “I’m grateful. I am. But now…” Tears welled in your eyes. “Now I’m all alone. And I have to go home to an empty house and pack their things and-” You broke off suddenly, unable to continue.

Dean placed a warm, reassuring hand on your thigh and squeezed gently. “Do you want to go back?” he asked softly. You shook your head.

“No. No, I ca- I can’t,” you cried weakly.

He nodded. “Okay. Let me go pack you a bag.”

An hour later, you were on the road to Lebanon, Kansas.

At least you wouldn’t be alone.

.  
.

It took weeks for you to settle into a routine at the bunker. Your heart was still broken, and it ached when you watched the brotherly interactions between Sam and Dean. You missed your family, and while you knew you were being brought into theirs, it wasn’t the same.

Mornings were often spent in bed. You’d make an appearance in the kitchen in the early afternoon for coffee before bringing a book from the library back to your room. The boys would knock, ask if you needed anything, offer to bring you something to eat. You’d decline with a shake of your head and a small smile.

You knew they were worried, but you needed time to process things on your own. You promised yourself you’d spend more time in their company when you felt a little less like crying every time you heard them laugh down the hall.

That day came about a month into your stay at the bunker, around the same time you decided you wanted to learn to hunt. Though Dean had been reluctant to agree, Sam reminded him that your life had been torn from you because of the supernatural, and you had every right to fight back.

You started training that night.

.  
.

With every day that passed, you felt a bit less suffocated by grief. Hours spent studying in the library with Sam gave you a sense of power: understanding the monsters and their respective Achilles’ heels armed you with knowledge you could use at a moment’s notice. Training with Dean had strengthened you, both mentally and physically.

The control you’d lost was slowly coming back, healing your heart a bit with each passing day.

You knew the brothers continued to worry about you; there were still days when you couldn’t leave your bed, and your appetite had never fully returned after the funeral. Though you felt hungry, nothing ever sounded satisfying. At times, the gnawing hunger was a welcome distraction from the task of rebuilding your life from the wreckage. The physical sensations were easy to focus in on, to learn and long for when the sadness was unbearable.

Little did you know, you were playing with fire.

.  
.

Your first hunt was rather uneventful, a fact that frustrated you.

The bones of the ghost had been easy to locate. You helped Dean dig the grave while Sam kept watch, ignoring the little black spots dancing in your vision every time you stood to toss dirt onto the growing mound behind you. There had been something satisfying about watching the bones go up in flames when Dean handed you the match, but something was still missing.

You wanted to fight, to save someone’s life the way Dean had saved yours. When you told him as much, he’d promised you a more challenging hunt as soon as you’d trained a bit more.

With a huff of annoyance, you’d conceded, promising him you’d work hard. He’d pressed a kiss to your temple, seeming to understand that you needed to do this, to fight and control the monsters that had stripped you of all security a few short months back.

As you lay in bed that night, your fingers ghosted absentmindedly over your hips, your collarbone, the lean muscle of your arms. One day, you’d be strong enough to take on a werewolf. You’d exact your revenge.

.  
.

Weeks came and went, melting into summer months. The hunger you’d chased now filled your days, occupying your thoughts and dictating your every move. You trained harder, fought exhaustion nearly constantly, searched for hunt after hunt to keep your mind busy, focused on something besides the bone-deep emptiness you felt.

You knew Dean was becoming suspicious. He left you alone less frequently, insisted on bringing you snacks when you had time off at the bunker, made sure you had enough water to drink. Evading him and his concern was becoming a difficult task.

He caught you early one morning as you tried to slip unnoticed through the bunker door. You hadn’t planned on him being up so early after the previous day’s hunt, but there he was, seated stiffly at the kitchen table, coffee in hand.

“Mornin’. Where’re you going?”

You paused. With no way around it, you figured honesty was the best policy. “Quick jog,” you said with a shrug.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you seriously going for a run in this heat? What the hell are you thinking?”

“That I should get moving before it’s unbearably hot outside later.”

He shook his head. “Wrong answer.” He pointed to the seat across from him. “Sit.” His voice left no room for argument, and you complied reluctantly, with anger building with each step you took. “What are you doing, Y/N?”

“I _thought_ I was going to get some exercise in early,” you bit back.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” he snapped.

“No, Dean, I don’t know.”

“This whole -” he gestured wildly at you with his free hand, “this thing. It’s not healthy.”

Your face flushed hot with anger. “I’m an adult. I can take care of myself. We’re not having this discussion.” You pushed back from the table and stormed down the hall to your room. The heavy thud of your door slamming echoed loudly in Dean’s ears.

He stayed close to the kitchen all day, waiting for you to come.

You never did.

.  
.

The opportunity you’d been waiting for came in November, and only by chance.

You’d been perusing a day old newspaper early that morning, black coffee in hand. It had no case prospects, and you’d been about to toss it when a small headline promising a story in another section of the paper caught your eye. You suddenly found yourself flipping through the pages excitedly, mentally crossing your fingers that this was your chance.

_Local girl's body found, missing heart; family in shock._

This was it. This was the case you’d been waiting for, one that would help ease your survivor’s guilt and let you prove yourself as the strong hunter Sam and Dean had trained you to become.

You were nearly bouncing when they stumbled into the bunker kitchen a few minutes apart, both rubbing sleep from their eyes. Dean held up a finger, telling you to pause before you even began. You smiled to yourself and passed him a coffee. He grunted a thanks and settled at the table, eyes barely open as sleep melted away.

Sam was a bit more awake when he joined you, and was more than willing to listen to the details of the case you’d found.

“Well? When can we go?” you’d asked when they were both alert and engaged. Sam shared a look with Dean, eyebrows cocked, before they turned back to you. Dean nodded once.

“Be ready in half an hour. And Y/N?” he called when you’d turn to slip out the kitchen. “Eat something. I don’t care what, but you need fuel for this hunt.” You pursed your lips, displeased, but nodded. You crossed the kitchen to pluck a protein bar from the pantry, and made sure to open it and take a bite in front of Dean on your way out.

Halfway through the bar and two thirds of the way to your room, you wrapped the rest of the bar, tucked it in your pocket to be disposed of later.

The drive out to Manitou Springs, Colorado felt interminable, though Dean made the drive in just under five and a half hours. He only stopped once to fill up on gas and grab snacks. You’d declined anything to eat, but he returned with a banana for you all the same. You’d rolled your eyes to hide the anxiety you felt staring at the fruit in your hand. How many calories were in a banana this size? You’d been sitting for too long, there was no way you’d burn everything from half the protein bar and this on the hunt and-

Dean and Sam were watching you from the front seat. The panic must have been evident on your face, because Sam gave you a sympathetic smile while Dean’s face hardened ever so slightly before he turned to start the Impala.

You managed just over half the fruit before your stomach rolled with anxiety. While Dean was busy singing along to one of his cassettes in the front seat, you rolled your window down quietly and tossed the remainder of the banana out onto the highway. Out of sight, out of mind. You smiled to yourself in relief.

Dean unloaded the bags from the trunk while Sam booked a room on the edge of Manitou Springs. The three of you changed into your fed suits immediately; the plan was to hit the coroner’s office and police station before speaking with the family. You realized, with a strange mixture of annoyance and pride, that your slacks were too loose, falling down your hips just enough to be a nuisance. You hunted in your bag for a safety pin; it would have to work for now.

As per usual, the authorities were little help. The coroner was simply baffled, the police chief clearly jonesing for retirement and not at all interested in working unusual cases. The family, though, quickly proved to be helpful.

“She was bright, captivating. Her teachers all believed she’d end up at an Ivy. But then…” Cara’s mother broke off, reached for her husband’s hand.

“Then what, Mrs. Lachlan?” Sam pressed gently.

Mr. Lachlan sighed heavily. “She met a boy. An upstanding student, but he had a reputation for trouble outside school.” He shared a look with his wife, who nodded. “We wondered if she fell in with his rougher crowd. If that’s why she’s gone.”

Dean took down the name of the boy and thanked the Lachlans for their time, offered his condolences for their loss. When the door on the porch closed behind them, the autumn air hung a little heavier.

Back at the motel, you helped Sam look into the boy, Ryan Something-Or-Other. His facebook revealed several pictures of him and Cara; it seemed her parents were unaware of the depth of her involvement with him. In several pictures, Ryan’s hand was pressed over Cara’s heart almost possessively from behind.

“Guys. Look at this.” You spun your laptop around for them to see. It only took a moment for them to come to the same realization you did.

“Seems he got what he wanted,” Dean muttered bitterly. He perched on the edge of one of the beds, emptied the chamber of his gun, and reloaded with silver bullets dexterously.

You crossed the room to do the same, furiously ignoring the dark spots that danced thicker and closer together than before. You shook your head to clear it, took a deep inhale, and pulled your gun from your bag. Reloading your own gun with the proper ammunition took much longer than it should have.

Dean pretended not to notice. Now wasn’t the time.

.  
.

Darkness settled around the abandoned barn where Ryan and his friends supposedly got drunk together on weeknights. Dean did a lap around the perimeter while you and Sam kept a lookout. When Dean signaled all clear, the three of you circled around the barn, you and Dean taking the north side of the entrance while Sam took the south.

You counted down from three with your fingers, standing back as they kicked in the door. With guns cocked and raised, your trio stormed inside and cornered the four teenagers growling, teeth bared and canine eyes wild.

The tallest of the group was the first to lunge, his lithe body like a bullet as he beelined for Sam. But Sam was too fast, and the werewolf’s body hit the floor in the same moment the gunshot rang out.

His sudden death triggered something in the others, and their defensive posture shifted to offensive crouches, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

You watched Dean cock his head in your periphery. Nodding your understanding, you raised your guns in unison, firing quick successive shots that took out the two remaining cronies, leaving Ryan the lone survivor of his pack.

He looked around frantically, the reality of his predicament sinking in as blood soaked the hay-strewn floor. Outnumbered three to one, he began to beg.

It was pathetic.

You shared a look with Sam and Dean, received confirmation as they nodded, and stepped forward to take the shot.

But the goddamned black spots blurred your vision again, and your heart hammered in your chest after those few easy steps. The world tilted ever so slightly, and you lowered your gun as your legs began to give.

Through the panic and confusion, you registered two muffled gunshots in quick succession, felt Sam’s arm wrap around your shoulders as you leaned your full weight against him. You were tired, your limbs inexplicably heavy, and you swore your eyelids must have been made of lead as you tried to keep them open.

“…is too high. Dammit.”

“…the car, let her sleep it…tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I’ve got her.” Strong arms lifted you deftly and pressed you against a firm chest. “Jesus,” you heard the voice mutter. Dean.

“No, ‘m fine,” you protested weakly. You tried to press against Dean’s chest, to tell him you could walk on your own, that he was overreacting. But your limbs were shaky, weak, and your protests did nothing to slow him.

“Yeah. You’re peachy.”

You found yourself wishing you had the energy to fight with him, but the welcome pull of unconsciousness hung heavy in your periphery. With your face pressed to Dean’s chest, you let his familiar scent ease you into sleep.

.  
.

You woke in your own bed, enveloped by your heavy duvet that never seemed warm enough lately. Little extras had been left all over your room. Like the blanket thrown on top of the duvet, or the glass of water left on your bedside table, or the note that sat beside it, asking you to call Dean when you woke up.

You rolled your eyes, thinking that was a bit excessive. You slid out from under the covers, feeling the immediate chill of the room, and tried to take a few steps. The dizziness and the ever present dark spots reappeared instantaneously. You huffed a sigh of frustration and snuggled back into bed, picked up your phone, and called Dean.

He answered on the first ring. “Be right there,” he muttered before hanging up without another word.

The familiar sound of their approaching footsteps stirred anxiety in you, though you couldn’t explain why. Three knocks sounded at your door, and your stomach dropped.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah, come in,” you called, your voice still a bit raspy.

Sam opened the door and leaned his head in, smiling tentatively at you. Dean pushed the door open further, allowing them both to step into your room before closing the door gently behind them.

Dean perched on the edge of your mattress near your feet; Sam half-sat, half-stood at the foot of the bed.

The silence was deafening.

Sam and Dean shared a silent conversation before Dean nodded, took a deep breath. Focused completely on you.

“We need to talk, kiddo.”

You shifted uncomfortably under their gazes. “If this has to do with the hunt yesterday, I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s not about the hunt, not really. It’s more about what happened to you _during_ the hunt,” Sam cut in gently. “We’re worried about you.”

“It won’t happen again, I promise,” you insisted earnestly.

“But it could. Because the way you’re treating yourself? Your body? It’s dangerous, and you’re lucky yesterday wasn’t more serious.”

“We killed the werewolves! We did what we were supposed to do!” you cried, feeling like they were missing the point and also terrified that maybe they weren’t.

“Taking out those wolves would have meant nothing if something had happened to you,” Dean interjected quietly. You didn’t know what to say to that. The loose threads of your duvet suddenly seemed fascinating. In your periphery, you could see them communicating in their silent language once again. The weight shifted at the end of your bed, and Sam closed the door softly behind himself on his way out.

“Baby, listen to me.” Dean’s hand covered both your smaller ones, pausing your anxious movements. He hooked a finger under your chin, tilted your gaze up to meet his. You saw no disappointment, no anger in his eyes. “You’re sick.”

“I’m _not_ sick-”

“Not the kind of sick you’re thinking. Not like a flu, or a common cold.” He gazed over his shoulder where Sam had left just a minute before. “Sammy and I, we’ve been doing some research. In our unprofessional opinions, we think you’re struggling with an eating disorder. Anorexia, more specifically,” he finished gently.

You didn’t know what to say to that. Every protest died on your lips. “But- but I’m not obsessed with being super thin! And I eat! You know I eat, Dean.” You felt like you were pleading for him to understand, to take it back.

He nodded, more patient than you’d ever seen him. “I know. I know you eat, but it’s not enough to sustain your body, ever. And more than that, the research we’ve done says it’s never about the food, not really. It’s usually about control.” He didn’t say anything more for a few minutes, letting the information sink in.

“The funeral,” you whispered, so softly you weren’t sure he heard it. But he nodded once, waited for you to continue. “I thought…I just didn’t have an appetite for- for so long. And being hungry felt good, like it was a different kind of pain, one I could handle…”

Dean reached for your hand, and you watched as your fingers intertwined.

“What’s that from?” you asked, brow furrowed in confusion, as you pointed with your free hand at a small bandaid wrapped around your middle finger.

Dean cleared his throat. “Sam, uh, Sam was smart. Realized your blood sugar might have been low last night. We checked it a couple times.” Now that it had your attention, your finger throbbed softly under the bandage.

There was a warning knock at the door before Sam came back in, a small mason jar in one hand, a straw in the other. Your heart began racing, and you scooted further back up the pillows.

“Hey, hey…look at me.” Dean cupped your face with his free hand, took slow inhales and exhales until you did the same, calming the anxiety you felt at seeing a smoothie clearly meant for you. “This is something else we need to talk about, okay?” Dean murmured. He shifted to sit right beside you, and Sam placed the smoothie on the bedside table behind Dean, outside your line of sight. Dean murmured his thanks while Sam flashed you a reassuring smile, and once again left you alone with Dean.

“I don’t- I can’t- am I broken, Dean?” you asked sadly. “I thought- I mean I _really_ thought that hunting, having control over the things that caused all this chaos in my life would help. That things would just…magically get better.” You sniffed. “I waited for months. For _months_ , Dean, for a werewolf hunt, just so I could take that shot. Take some of my power back.” Errant tears slipped down your cheeks. “And we did it. So why don’t I feel happier?” you whispered brokenly.

Dean smiled wistfully and thumbed a tear from your cheek. “Can anybody be happy if they aren’t free?”

Your brow furrowed. A hiccup escaped. “What do you mean?”

He sighed. “Mind if I- ?” he gestured to your bed, and you scooted over to make room for him beside you. He settled over the duvet and opened his arm for you to curl into his side. He took a deep breath before speaking again. “I would think…that it’s very hard to find happiness when you’re always fighting yourself.” You waited, let his words hang in the air for a moment. “This…this eating disorder has slowly taken over, without you realizing. There’s no freedom in that. I don’t fully understand it, and I don’t think I’ll really ever be able to. But…it seems to me that this happiness you’re chasing? It’s going to have to start with some internal battles. Not with monsters like werewolves, or vampires, or shifters.”

A nauseating mixture of about a thousand emotions you couldn’t name flooded your veins, overwhelmed your mind until you couldn’t do anything except cry.

And Dean let you. He tucked your head into his chest, stroked your hair soothingly, ran his hand up and down your arm, before he thought twice about how that might bother you.

“So what do we do now?” you asked his flannel, and he chuckled. He helped you sit up and reached for the smoothie Sam had left.

“We start here.” He opened the straw and dropped it in, passed the cold glass jar to you and watched your expression carefully. “Just a sip.”

With your heart hammering in your chest, you closed your lips around the straw. As soon as the cold of the smoothie touched your tongue, tears sprung to your eyes, and you thrust the jar back to Dean. “I can’t, Dean, I’m sorry, I can’t,” you cried weakly.

He waited patiently for your anxiety to ebb, before saying with firm kindness, “I need you to try again. You have to start you somewhere.” You shook your head and stared at the duvet. He sighed, though there was no impatience, no resignation behind it. “Okay. Okay.” He set the smoothie on the bedside table again. “We’ll try again later. But we need to talk about our other option, here, kiddo.” He waited patiently for you to look up at him. “Sam and I, we researched some centers. Some places that are specialized in dealing with these disorders. There’s one that can admit you, if you stay stable for a couple days.”

Your heart sank in your chest. An unkind voice in the back of your mind screamed that this was too much of a burden for them, that they had more important things to do.

“It’s not that we don’t want you around, or that this is a burden. We just…we want you to get better, and if we can’t provide that support for you, we want you to find it somewhere else. We need you.” He paused. “ _I_ need you.” You looked up, tears still brimming in your eyes. He cupped your cheek again. “But we’ve got to get you better, baby.”

You nodded hesitantly. You wanted to keep this life with them, too. And you understood that meant doing things that scared you. You took a deep, steadying breath, and felt very much not brave as you whispered, "I'll try the smoothie again.” Dean’s eyes lit up with hope and he nodded as he passed it back to you.

He held your free hand while you closed your eyes and pretended you were doing anything other than sipping a calorically-rich smoothie. “Just do what you can,” he murmured. After fifteen minutes or so, when you’d managed all you could at just over half, Dean set the rest aside.

You sniffled, anxiety mounting as your sense of control seemed to vanish suddenly, leaving you unsettled and unsure. Dean held you as you cried, rocked you side to side until he was wrapped around you from behind and your tears stained your pillow instead of his shirt.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. “You’ll be alright. You’ll see.”

.  
.

The drive to Denver just three days later simultaneously seemed too quick and agonizingly slow. You wanted to rip the bandaid off, to just throw yourself headfirst into whatever hell was waiting for you at this renowned treatment facility Sam and Dean had found for you.

Dean parked close to the red brick building so you wouldn’t have far to walk; he still hovered after the last hunt. He opened your door and helped steady you when your vision darkened again. You waited, one hand pressed to the Impala’s roof, as he pulled your bag from the trunk. But this bag had no daggers, no silver bullets or holy water flasks. You were preparing for a different kind of fight this time. You smiled nervously at Dean, and he laced his fingers with yours as you walked inside the warm building.

The next hours passed in a blur; you’d been given binders to read, hands to shake, financial responsibility forms to glance through. A nurse had come down to take you up for labs and a physical exam. Dean had convinced her to let him come with you for the blood draw, but promised to return to the lobby for the rest.

When you finally met him in the lobby just over an hour later, you were on the verge of tears. You stepped towards him, arms wrapped around yourself, as if that would hold you together, and shook your head. He opened his arms, and you collapsed into them as you cried.

Dean made no promises that everything would be great, or even fine, that this would be easy, that you’d end up liking this place. Though he suspected the last part was true, none of those things were what you needed to hear at the moment.

So he pulled you to one of the lobby sofa chairs and crouched before you.

“This is a good thing. You’ll get the help you need here, and you’ll come out on the other side. And Sammy and I will come visit every weekend, I promise.” That brought a tiny smile to your face. Dean cupped your cheek, and you closed your eyes as you leaned into his touch.

When you opened your eyes again, he was looking at you with a fondness, a love, that nearly brought you to tears yet again that morning. You turned and kissed his palm, knowing the gesture would say everything you couldn’t.

“Just…one more thing.” You covered his hand with your own and nodded. “Have courage, and be kind. Everyone here is fighting, too. Learn from their battles. Teach with yours.”

You threw your arms around his neck. “I will. I promise,” you whispered.

The nurse called your name, letting you know it was time for your first meal with the community. Dean helped you stand and wrapped you in one last hug.

As you followed the nurse, you took one last look at Dean and waved.

You knew you’d be okay. This was another battle. And Dean Winchester had trained you to fight.

**Author's Note:**

> National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA)  
> Website: https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/  
> Help Line: (800) 931-2237


End file.
